


The Green Carnations

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: HLV fix-it, His Last Vow, Infidelity (Mary), M/M, POV: Janine, Set during and post HLV, Sherlock/Janine (but not really), series 3 fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:34:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Janine met Sherlock at John & Mary's wedding, she thought she knew what sort of a man Sherlock Holmes was. So it was a surprise when he called to ask her out for coffee not long after. Set during and after <i>His Last Vow</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Green Carnations

**The Green Carnations**

 

When Sherlock called to ask if she wanted to get a coffee sometime, Janine thought he sounded a bit stiff on the phone. Once she’d got over her slight astonishment, she’d agreed and suggested a time and a place, since he didn’t seem to have a clue how to handle that part of the conversation. He’d hung up without saying goodbye, leaving her both miffed and mystified, but also a bit amused. Sherlock Holmes. How unexpected. He’d all but agreed with her implication that he was gay as the day was long. He’d treated her like – and much as she hated the term, there wasn’t really a better one – a fag hag. A fruit fly, she’d heard, but people often didn’t know that term. He’d suggested someone for her to hook up with, and seemed indifferent when she’d seen the merit of his suggestion and gone for it. Paul, his name had been. She’d gone home from the wedding with him, back to his rather posh flat in Kensington Park Gardens. Posher than her own place in Clapham, anyway, which was nice enough, just small. Even with her salary, which was really the best thing that could be said about her job, it was the biggest place she could afford to rent on her own. 

Mary said she should be demanding a raise, but Janine wasn’t really the demanding type. Bit too laidback for that kind of thing, and besides, Mr Magnussen was scary sometimes. The last time she’d asked for some time off, he’d flicked her in the eye again and she’d had no choice but to take it and hope he wouldn’t smudge her make-up too badly; she didn’t want to have to redo it before going for drinks with some of the blokes from the marketing department, one of whom she had her eye on. 

Anyway, coffee had been very strange. Sherlock seemed ill-at-ease throughout, fidgeting with anything his hands could find to fiddle with. Not nervous, just uncomfortable, which she’d found odd; he’d seemed fine at the wedding after the initial hitch. He’d made it extremely clear that he had no interest whatsoever in them hooking up and immediately started suggesting other people, which certainly conveyed his message well enough. She’d assumed he was gay, and given his general unhappiness throughout the ceremony and reception went on to assume that it was for Mary’s new husband in particular. Pity, that. Sad. But these things happened. She thought they’d come to the obvious conclusion after he’d done that ridiculous pirouette in the foyer there; she’d said _If only you weren’t… whatever it is you are_ and his response: _I know_. Agreeing. Touch of regret, but agreeing nonetheless. Besides, he’d just insulted her dancing skills and earlier corrected her on the colour of her dress when she’d said it was lavender, insisting that it was lilac and adding that he would know, given how much time he and John had spent choosing them. That was another issue, the fact that, according to Mary at least, Sherlock had insisted that Mary’s bridesmaids would only make a hash of everything and that they’d all be better off if he and John planned the wedding themselves. Mary said she’d dryly asked if she could be in on it too, and Sherlock had conceded, to Mary’s amusement. He’d apparently folded all of the napkins himself. John was supposed to have helped but hadn’t been much use at it. Mary hadn’t even bothered trying; that was what bridesmaids were for, she’d (apparently) told Sherlock, but that if he preferred to do it all himself, he was welcome to it. 

“I can’t wait to meet him,” Janine had said, and Mary had rolled her eyes.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” she’d told Janine with a touch of sarcasm. “He’s a weird one.”

“Yeah? Why’re they friends, then? John seems pretty normal.”

“He is,” Mary had agreed. “I don’t know. They ended up living together for awhile when they were both having financial difficulties and somehow they just hit it off. It’s beyond me, honestly.”

“Well, I guess I’ll meet him at the rehearsal, then.” Janine was curious; Mary made Sherlock sound like such an oddity. 

No luck there either, though. Mary had shaken her head. “Sherlock insists that rehearsals are pointless. I suppose he has a point. It’s just another night to pay for the rental and we all know who says what when and where to stand – trust me, Sherlock has endless diagrams all over his flat – so John agreed that we didn’t have to have one. He checked with me _after_ the fact, of course.” She’d sounded tolerantly amused. 

Mary hadn’t exaggerated about how odd Sherlock was, but she’d failed mention how attractive he was. And how obsessed with John he seemed to be. Janine had happened to glance at him while John was repeating his vows, and despite how utterly expressionless he’d been for most of the rest of the ceremony, she’d been surprised to note a passing flash of intensely pained emotion on his face and wondered if he was thinking about a failed relationship or something. A bad break-up, maybe. But afterward, during the photos, when he’d been staring blatantly at John, as though Mary wasn’t even there, it had clicked. There were other things, too. 

Just the way he would say John’s name. Not that he’d said much it lately; it had become almost a taboo topic, but when he did, it was different from the way he said anything else. There was that extra polish to it, the name held in his mouth and relished as something incalculably precious. That was what had made her sure that it was John in particular. Otherwise the dancing bit and then the lilac, and the fact that he’d planned the entire wedding down to the ribbon colours on the name cards… she didn’t want to stereotype too much, but it was a lot of counts against a typical bloke’s straightness, wasn’t it? Not that Sherlock was anything like typical. He also knew precisely which flowers were which and pointed out the historical significance of some of them. The bit that had caught her interest there were the green carnations. He’d rambled about some book by Hichens called _The Green Carnation_ which was meant to implicate Oscar Wilde and his lover and was then used to prosecute Wilde when he was taken to court for the crime of homosexuality. Not that Sherlock had worded it that way; he’d said something a bit more delicately vague like “preferring the company of men” or some such thing. Janine wasn’t a literature snob. She hadn’t even known that Oscar Wilde had been gay and said so. Sherlock had given her a strange look, then said, _No, women weren’t precisely his area_.

Janine ignored that, though, asking as someone came by to refill their glasses before the toasts and speeches were to start, “So why’d you pick green carnations for John’s wedding, then?” Sherlock had given her a blank look, so she’d had to clarify. “I mean, if they’re associated with homosexuality or whatever, seems like a strange choice for a straight wedding.”

Sherlock had cleared his throat then and fiddled with the name card by his plate. “John chose them,” he said, not looking at her. “He liked that they were green.”

She got it then. “And he didn’t know and you didn’t tell him,” she’d said. “I get it. Well, don’t worry – I doubt many people here know about all that.”

She’d meant it to reassure him, but he’d only looked more bothered still and excused himself from the table. Loo, she’d figured, but he hadn’t said. There were times in the evening when he seemed utterly unaware of her presence at all and the rest of the time he was either talking to John, talking about John, solving a murder with John, or… not there. He’d left really early, and that had certainly sealed the deal in her mind about who he’d wished he’d gone home with, at any rate, and it sure wasn’t her. Poor bloke. Tough being in love with your best friend and him being pretty oblivious (though that speech made it pretty clear, but still: men) and also having just got married. No wonder he’d left. She’d seen his face, playing that nice violin piece he’d written for them. Not for them: obviously for John. His eyes hadn’t left John once as he’d played. Then he’d tossed her his corsage, maybe as a token of having been a decent bit of company (while he’d remembered she was there, at least) and disappeared. 

So yes: the coffee date had been unexpected to say the least. The one thing he seemed to want to talk to her about was her job. She vaguely remembered having told him where she worked sometime during the reception, but suddenly it was interesting to him. He asked her approximately three thousand questions about the corporate structure, her tasks as Mr Magnussen’s PA, Mr Magnussen’s daily routines, his personality. Every time Janine had tried to steer the conversation back to Sherlock and his hobbies or something like that, Sherlock had firmly steered it back to the topic of her work. She’d started wondering if he was trying to get a job at CAM Global or something when he’d suddenly blinked and changed the subject himself, albeit lapsing into a strange silence first. He certainly wasn’t your usual type, but he was interesting. And attractive. Very attractive. At the end, he’d cleared his throat and uncertainly stated that perhaps they should have dinner sometime. 

“Oh!” Janine had said, taken aback by this. “Sure! Er, when are you free?”

Sherlock had appeared to be calculating the days in his head, then said, “Today is Wednesday. Friday?”

“Erm – sorry, but I’ve got a date that night already,” she said, then wondered if she’d said too much in comparing dinner with Sherlock to a date. “With Paul, remember?” He looked blank. “From the wedding. The one you set me up with.”

“Oh.” Sherlock had looked a bit at sea. “Right.”

She’d smiled. His lost-ness was endearing, somehow. “Free Saturday?”

“What? Oh. Saturday. Yes.” He’d blinked, then produced the name of a restaurant at seeming random. “We’ll meet there at seven.”

“Will we?” Janine had said archly. “I’ll try to be on time, then.” She’d leaned forward and dropped a kiss on his (completely unresponsive) cheek, then walked off. 

He was always like that, full of mixed messages. Dinner had been equally strange, and she’d finally had to pointedly ask if they could talk about something other than her job. She’d asked about past girlfriends then, and that had frozen him up so thoroughly that he almost didn’t speak at all for ten minutes. Finally, after a horribly stilted ten minutes of him giving monosyllabic answers, he’d suddenly said, “I haven’t had one before. A girlfriend. It’s never really been my area.”

Janine had had to restrain herself from making the obvious assumption, aloud, that clearly women in general weren’t his area, but the fact was that they were having dinner in a rather nice restaurant and maybe this actually was a date and if so, perhaps she shouldn’t fuck it up by calling her date a shirt lifter. She’d picked up her wine and taken a sip. “Never wanted one?”

She expected him to say something like, “Yes, but it never worked out”, or “I’ve always been so busy with my work”, or something along those lines, but all he said was, “No.” Just that. _No_. 

She thought of John Watson again and held her tongue. “So, what’s this, then?” she asked, not quite sure if she was flirting or just… asking a real question. “Is this a date?” Real question, then. 

Sherlock blinked about fifteen times, then said, “Would you like it to be one?”

Janine pushed the thought of John out of her head and said firmly, “Yes.”

Sherlock considered her for a long moment, then nodded once, as though to himself, then said, “Fine.”

She still hadn’t known quite what to do with that. “Fine?” It was her turn to be uncertain. “Fine, as in, this is a date, then?”

Sherlock made a vague gesture with his fork. “Unless you’re dating… Paul,” he said, reproducing the name from some well in his memory. 

She shook her head. “That was just a short thing. Nothing special.”

Sherlock blinked again. “Is this special?”

Someday she would explain exactly why that was rude, but perhaps it wasn’t the time. “Could be,” she said instead, and smiled. 

He hadn’t smiled back, just looked at her for a moment with those peculiar eyes of his, then went on eating his food, which he seemed to have forgotten about for several minutes. Weirdest date of her life, and that didn’t even count the end. Outside the restaurant, Sherlock had hailed a cab, then stopped when it drew up as though the idea had only just occurred and offered to let her take it. So much for getting invited over, then. Baby steps with this one, maybe. She’d agreed, then thanked him for dinner, stepping closer in a deliberate, extremely obvious bid for a kiss. He hadn’t taken it. Hadn’t seemed to be aware of it at all, in fact, so she’d leaned over and kissed him herself. Gently. No tongue. Didn’t want to scare him off. When she drew away, she saw that he hadn’t closed his eyes and was staring at her as though she was some strange breed of insect. He didn’t look repulsed, though. Just… startled. 

“Well – good night,” she’d said to his utter non-responsiveness. 

“Good night,” he said, and closed the door of her cab after her. Was there a touch of relief in his tone, a little too much finality? If so, she decided to ignore it. Dinner had been weird but this was worth pursuing. Even if he hadn’t kissed back – not at _all_ , honestly – those lips had been fun to kiss. 

She really hadn’t expected to hear from him again. But then she did the following Monday evening. He’d called, actually rung her. She’d been at home, lounging about in yoga pants and an old t-shirt, surprised to see his name on the call display. After saying hello and stumbling through some awkward smalltalk, he’d finally loosened up slightly and startled rambling vaguely, all around the edges of a topic that only started emerging clearly after about ten minutes of her squinting in confusion at the wall opposite while trying to figure out what the hell he was on about. Eventually she started getting it: he’d never been in a relationship before, was what he was saying, though he kept countering it with vague allusions to understanding the nature of domestic arrangements and something about having got used to having another person around and finally clued in that he was talking about John, essentially comparing it to a romantic relationship. She’d interrupted him after a bit and asked if he was getting at wanting to give relationships a try now. After another three minutes’ worth of fumbled talking about it indirectly, Janine had pinched the bridge of her nose and said, “Yes or no, Sherlock: are you asking me out?” He’d hesitated so long she almost thought he’d hung up, but then he’d exhaled and said yes. She’d laughed then and told him he should have just said so, and cheerfully suggested she go over the next night. He’d hedged and suggested they meet for a drink instead. She got it; he was gun shy and didn’t want anything moving too quickly. Fine: they could do slow, then. 

All that about John was troubling, but he was obviously interested. Maybe he’d just never met the right woman. Maybe he was bisexual but had never been with a woman so far. Maybe he’d never been with anyone, and seeing as John had got married and closed that door pretty permanently, he was lonely and reaching out and willing to experiment. Experimentation could be fun. They’d explore. With a face and body like that, she was down for _anything_ , honestly. 

He’d said something about having to work after the drink and squirmed out of taking her home – or coming home with her, but let her kiss him again. He hadn’t made any moves toward it, just closed his eyes tightly and waited for her to do it. It was cute. He was like a little kid. He still was; he hadn’t made much headway with kissing. He never initiated it but didn’t seem to mind when she did it. She thought that maybe he even liked it. When had anyone ever been affectionate with him? Maybe never. He seemed like such a lonely person. Solitary by choice, maybe, but very, very definitely a virgin, she’d finally figured out. 

Janine had finally called him in the middle of the afternoon one day the following week and asked him point blank if there were any nights that week that he wasn’t working. He’d hesitated, but finally said Thursday, two nights away. She’d told him in a tone that brooked no refusal that she was coming over and bringing a bottle of wine and a DVD and that was that. He’d accepted it (reluctantly), then asked how her day was going. She’d glanced over at the door to the stairwell (one never knew when Mr Magnussen would suddenly appear) and said it was fine, but busy. “See you on Thursday,” she’d said firmly, and he’d made a vague (uncomfortable?) sound and disconnected. 

He’d stiffened when she moved to lean against him during the movie, and she’d smiled wickedly at him and neither of them said anything about it. After about forty minutes he’d finally relaxed a little, and she’d lifted his arm and put it around her shoulders. He’d allowed that, and after a bit longer, she’d put her hand on his leg, just above the knee, and turned her face toward his. He’d kept his gaze resolutely on the telly until her staring become too obvious to ignore. He’d had to look down at her then. His eyes were reflecting the light of the screen, silver-blue in the darkened room, and she’d reached up and pulled his face to hers. He’d kissed back a little bit, lips still as tightly closed as ever, then made a muffled noise against her mouth and gesticulated at the telly. She’d drawn away. “What?” Confusion. She’d taken it _so_ slowly. 

Sherlock was biting his lower lip. “I – this is the – I like this part, when he gets the killers,” he said, with another vague gesture at the telly. 

She hadn’t known how to feel. Did he honestly not know that watching movies was specifically a cover for snogging? (Was she really being upstaged by Casino Royale?) “I didn’t realise you’d already seen this.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth tightened. “I saw it with John, once.”

“Ah.” Her flat response fell between them and after a bit, she’d moved away. He made no other advances toward her, and when the movie ended, she said she supposed she’d better get home. The relief was palpable in his tone and she’d thought that was it, then. That the little experiment was a flop and that he would let it peter out on its own. But then he’d called two days later asking about dinner, and maybe she should have said no, but damn it, she _liked_ him. Obviously his thing for John was getting in the way, but he was still pursuing whatever this thing was with her, so he clearly wanted something from her. Maybe he didn’t even know what it was. She’d gone for dinner and he’d actually kissed her himself for the first (and possibly last) time. Maybe it was meant as an apology for the movie night, though she personally preferred her apologies to come with considerably more tongue. And flowers. And possibly sex. Baby steps, she’d reminded herself. 

After dinner, she’d asked straight up if she could come over and Sherlock had hesitated, then agreed. He seemed jittery, more fidgety than usual, and when she’d asked if he was all right as he drummed his fingers at lightning speed on the kitchen table, he said something vague about experiencing certain “symptoms” but didn’t want to go into any detail. He’d let her come sit down in his lap in the wooden kitchen chair but hadn’t stopped fidgeting. He hadn’t suggested moving into a more comfortable part of the flat at any point, though he hadn’t made her move, either. When it got late, she’d suggested that perhaps it was about her bedtime. He’d nodded and said he’d go down and get her a cab, if she wanted. She leaned in and said, lips almost on his, “That’s sweet, but I thought maybe I’d… stay over.”

Sherlock had swallowed visibly, then said she was welcome to sleep there. And that he had to go out. For work, though his eyes were shifty, refusing to meet her gaze. “I’ll be back in the morning,” he’d added. “Go ahead, though. If you want to.”

“Sort of missing my point a little,” Janine had said easily, “but all right. Come in and wake me up when you get home?”

He’d nodded, looking absent, then excused himself into his bedroom and came out wearing the scruffiest, grossest clothes she’d ever laid eyes on. 

“What are you _wearing_?” she’d asked, half in horror, half in amusement. 

He’d looked down at himself. “It’s for my cover.”

“You look like you’re going under cover in a crack house,” Janine had said, unable to stop staring at it in fascinated disgust. 

He’d quirked an eyebrow, somehow looking pleased. “Maybe I am.”

“Well, don’t go too deep cover,” she’d quipped, and he frowned. “What?” (Had she misstepped, somehow?)

“I, er, used to have… something of a habit. When I was younger,” he admitted. “Not crack. Obviously. Other things. Opiate variants, generally. Cocaine.”

She’d blinked. “But… this is for a case, you said, right? I mean, you’re not going to…”

He’d grimaced a little. “Let’s hope I solve it soon. It should be fine. Anyway, I’ll see you in the morning, if you’re still here.”

“Okay.” She’d hesitated, wondering if she should say anything else about the drugs thing, then decided against it. “I leave for work around eight. Come back before then and kiss me goodbye.”

“I’ll try,” Sherlock said, though he hadn’t. Been back on time, that is. 

She stayed over semi-regularly for the next two weeks or so. He’d disappear each time, donning those same, disgusting clothes. More often than not he was back before she woke, though, waking her by running the bathwater. She “accidentally” walked in on him one morning, the curtain drawn most of the way around the big, claw-foot tub. “Hello,” he’d said, unperturbed. She’d giggled and apologised and he hadn’t seemed to care at all. 

“Mind if I pee?” she’d asked, and he’d shrugged it off as though he couldn’t possibly care less. A _touch_ of voyeuristic interest might have been nice, a glimpse at parts of her he hadn’t apparently wanted to see yet. (Maybe he really was gay.) He’d leaned forward, disappearing behind the curtain and running some more hot water into the tub, possibly to give her some noise cover, not that she was pee-shy. Maybe it was just to avoid looking at her. Or he didn’t want to hear the sound of it. Or he was being gentlemanly. She wished he would stop being so damned gentlemanly one of these days soon. After, she’d flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and gone to sit down on the edge of the tub, the curtain protecting her knickers from getting wet. She wasn’t wearing a bra under her t-shirt and wanted him to notice. “So, working again tonight?”

“Yes,” Sherlock had said instantly. “Sorry. Big case. Very important. The client is a very important woman and it’s a pressing matter.”

She studied his eyes and decided he wasn’t high. (Good.) “Crack den still not a problem, then?” she’d asked, a bit too casually. 

He winced a little and looked away. “No,” he said, and she was reasonably sure that he was being honest. 

She’d smiled and reached past the curtain to dip her fingers in the water, flicking some toward his face. He’d actually chuckled, but didn’t splash her back, or pull her over the edge and into the tub with him, which was what she was angling after. When the little laugh died, she’d sighed internally and got up. “I’ll make some coffee,” she said. 

“I notice you moved the coffee maker.”

She’d paused in the doorway. “Uh-huh.” She waited. “That a problem?”

“No. It was John who put it there.”

The reference bothered her. “Well, it goes over where it is now. He can move it back the next time he lives here.” Sherlock didn’t respond, which wasn’t unusual, but there was a heaviness to his silence this time, and she felt a bit badly. Honestly, though, he had to accept it sometime. She left him and made coffee. He didn’t come home in time to see her the next night, and she spent the night after that in her own, semi-abandoned flat. 

He did come back to the flat sometime during the next time she stayed over, though. She found him asleep on the sofa when she woke up to shower for work, still wearing those despicable clothes, trainers and all. She went and shook him awake. He didn’t respond immediately and when he did, his eyes were slack and heavy, pupils small. “Morning,” he said, and something sounded a bit off. 

She’d felt her forehead knitting itself together, not wanting to ask, but… “Morning,” she said. “Why didn’t you come to bed if you were home?”

His eyelids sagged. “Didn’t want to disturb you,” he mumbled. 

“Sherlock.” She was never this sharp with him. He didn’t respond. “Are you high?” she asked, hating that she was asking. 

He’d shrugged. “No. Maybe. It was for my cover. Hard to blend in with smackheads when you’re not… it’s fine. I’m fine. It’s under control.” When she didn’t respond, he’d opened his eyes and spoke again, making an effort to sound sober. “It’s fine,” he’d repeated. “I won’t do it again. I used to use quite a lot. I can handle an amount like this.”

He’d reached out and caught her hand then, something he never did. Janine had bitten her lip. “Okay,” she said, sounding as uncertain as she felt. 

She got a smile back for her efforts. “I’ll clean up,” he promised. “We can have dinner tonight, if you’re free.”

She’d relented. “When am I not free for you, Sherl? Honestly.” He’d smiled. “I’ll come by after work, then.”

“Why don’t I come meet you there?” He definitely sounded more alert now, though his pupils were still too contracted. 

“All right,” Janine had said, sounding surprised even to her own ears. “You miss me last night or something?”

Sherlock had smiled evasively. “Maybe I did.”

She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, then wrinkled her nose. “You smell like a drug den and homeless people,” she said playfully. “Go take a bath.”

“Mm. In a bit. Not done sleeping.” Sherlock had closed his eyes again, then said, “You should go. You’ll be late.”

Lateness meant getting flicked in the eye, generally. Janine glanced at her phone. He was right. “See you later, then. You know where the building is?”

“Of course. I know London.” He was dismissive, and she’d left then.

After that, she’d only seen him high again once, though it still bothered her. The morning of the second time, four days after the first, Mr Magnussen had called her into his office to ask about him. Apparently he’d seen them meeting in the foyer when he’d come to meet her for dinner, and recognised Sherlock’s face from his coverage in the media – their own papers as well as various competitors’. “Are you dating him?” Mr Magnussen had asked, not quite frowning. 

“Just seeing him,” she’d said, a bit defensive. “We met at his best friend’s wedding not long ago.”

“Oh yes. John Watson’s.” His pale eyes had studied her. “I was invited, you know.”

“Yes,” she said. “I remember.” She’d sent his telegram herself. “You knew Mary’s parents, right?”

He’d smiled, as though to himself. (She’d learned long ago not to ask.) “In a matter of speaking. Yes. Let me ask you: does Mr Holmes have a problem with opiates?”

It was like he knew. He was extremely good at telling when people were lying. She also wasn’t allowed to break eye contact when he was speaking to her. “He used to use a bit, when he was younger,” she’d told him, hedging. “Nothing serious. I don’t think.”

“And now?” He peered curiously at her. 

“No – not really,” she stammered. “Maybe sometimes. I don’t really know. We’re not that close yet. It’s only been since the wedding.”

“Ah.” He’d patted her on the hand then, his hand as grotesquely damp as always. “Thank you. Bring me a cup of tea and close the door when you go.”

“Yes, sir.” She’d all but fled from his presence and vowed never to let Sherlock meet her there again. 

It didn’t quite work. He’d been there in the lobby unexpectedly, waiting for her the very next day. She’d looked around as she subtly hurried him out and said that maybe he shouldn’t come to the building, about not always knowing when she would get out of work and so forth. He agreed, at least if the non-descript sound he made was any indication, and – predictably – changed the subject. 

***

John and Mary got back from their honeymoon and Janine wondered when John was going to start coming around, what he’d think of finding her there when he did. How Sherlock would be about it all. Would he deny that it was happening? Try to make John jealous? Maybe she would actually get laid eventually, after all, if the latter proved to be the case. There was no sign of John, though. Mary texted and wanted to have coffee, so Janine went and met her after work one day. She and Sherlock didn’t have any plans that night anyway. She figured she’d best keep quiet about all that, until Sherlock decided to make it public. So she chatted with Mary about Majorca and teased her about her lack of tan. 

“Do any shopping?” she asked. 

“Oh, sure,” Mary replied, sipping her cappuccino. “I found a bunch of nice things.”

By “nice things”, Janine hoped she didn’t mean along the lines of the thumb shirt. Mary’s taste was unique, that much could certainly be said. She smiled and recrossed her legs the other way. “What did John do with himself while you were shopping? Or did he go along?”

Mary snorted. “John, shop? No, he just stayed on the beach and read some boring book about World War II until I got back. He needed to relax; it was good for him.”

“Sure.” Janine was sympathetic. “Weddings are stressful. All the planning and that.”

“Well, we did get Sherlock to do most of it,” Mary reminded her with a sly smile. “I mean, he wanted to. Still.”

Janine managed not to react to his name at all. She smiled. “Right. But still, weddings, they’re such a big deal. Good that you two got away for a bit of sun after. You had fun, then?”

“Oh, sure,” Mary said, looking out the window and squinting at something across the street. “You know: like any couple, we argued a bit. It’s not a honeymoon without a bit of fighting, right? But no, it was great.”

They were the only couple Janine knew who argued on their honeymoon, but it seemed tactless to point that out. “Right,” she said. “So now you’re back to work already?”

“We both are,” Mary agreed. “I drive. John cycles. Bit ridiculous, when we’re going to the same place, but he’s gained a bit of weight in the last couple of months, so he might as well.”

Janine hid a smile. Interesting, that. “He looks a lot like your ex, David,” she said, deciding not to comment on John’s weight. It was one thing for Mary to do it but she didn’t fancy having her head bitten off for agreeing. “I met him at the wedding. He was nice.”

“I hope you didn’t try to hook up with him,” Mary said, suddenly a bit sharp. 

Janine was startled and sat back a bit. “What? No! I would never, with a friend’s ex, Mary, you know that. I hope you know that, at least! I just said he was nice. And that he looks a lot like John. I just meant to say that I see what your type is now. He’s not my type at all, don’t worry.”

Mary smiled and turned her cup in its saucer. “I’m not. He still loves me, you know.”

“John?” Janine repeated, slightly confused. “Or David?”

“David,” Mary said, impatient. “Obviously _John_ still loves me, I would hope! But David never got over me. He still emails me all the time.” She sounded both fond and a bit as though she were proud of that. Bragging, a little. 

Janine raised her eyebrows. “Interesting,” was all she could think to say. “When did you break up, then?”

“I broke up with him about a year ago,” Mary said, her tone musing. “A couple of months before I started working at the clinic and met John. We stayed friends, though. I mean, he never wanted to break up.”

She had to admit, David _did_ still seem rather smitten at the wedding. “I’ve heard sex with exes can be amazing,” she drawled. “Though I’ve never tried it myself.”

“It is,” Mary said, sounding a bit smug. (She’d always been a story one-upper and she rose to the bait on this one without even noticing Janine was digging.) 

Janine smirked and stirred the dregs of her latte; all the sugar she’d added had settled to the bottom. “So, when did that happen, then?”

Mary realised her mistake and looked a bit cornered, though she smiled. It might have been a touch forced. “I suppose I walked into that, didn’t I?” She took another sip of the cappuccino, considering Janine over the rim of the cup. She set it down and said, “Just between us, of course. I know you would never tell John.”

“Of course not,” Janine said, smiling and leaning in conspiratorially. “Spill!”

Mary glanced around. “A couple of times, actually. Once when John and I were just dating and once or twice after we’d got engaged. You won’t say anything, will you? It was just a harmless thing. Had nothing to do with John and I. Just a now-and-then thing on the side.”

“No, of course not,” Janine said. “Not for me to judge, anyway. It’s your relationship. But it was good?”

Mary smiled, scrunching up her nose in that cute way she had. “It was,” she admitted. “Every time. He’s good, you know. There was one time when it was a bit of a risk… it was while John and Sherlock were out on a case and I had David come to Baker Street.”

Janine felt her mouth drop open. “Seriously? Wow, that _is_ risky. So, er, where at Baker Street?”

“Upstairs, in John’s old bedroom. In a way, it actually made me feel closer to him,” Mary said. Janine thought she was joking for a moment, but she looked completely serious. 

She bit back the disbelieving comment on the tip of her tongue and said instead, “Huh.” Not very original but she couldn’t think of what else to say. 

“So, how’s work?” Mary asked, changing the subject. “Magnussen still being a dick to you?”

Janine shrugged and had a quick look around, herself. “It’s not so bad.” She wasn’t sure why she always felt so defensive about it. There was something about Mary’s sympathy that always felt a bit too condescending, though, a bit too much like pity. She’d just tell her she ought to stand up for herself more, but she didn’t work with Mr Magnussen, or know how intimidating he could be sometimes. He was okay some days, less okay other days. “Jeez, why does everyone want to talk about my job all the time these days?” she asked, more of a mutter to herself than to Mary, but Mary caught it regardless, eyebrows lifting coolly. 

“Sorry,” she said, not sound particularly sorry. “Just asking.”

Janine looked at the cappuccino. “You done your coffee? Want to shop a little or do you need to get back?”

“I’m in no rush,” Mary said. She smiled in a way that put Janine in mind of a cat, somehow. “John will wait. He always does.”

***

She went to Sherlock’s the next night with another DVD, though he reacted to that with indifference, more or less. He’d already warned her that he’d need to work again that night and said something about developments. Janine accepted it with good humour and draped her legs across his lap. If only to maybe divert a tiny bit of interest to that region of his body. It didn’t seem to achieve much, though. Did he not even have a libido, or was that entire part of himself on permanent reserve for John Watson? Bloody John. She was beginning to wonder how long it was going to take until he could even see her without seeing John in his mind’s eye – and wishing it was him instead. She shifted a bit, trying to see how subtly she could rub her calf over his crotch, but her knees were bent and she couldn’t quite make enough contact without being really obvious about it. What would he even do if she just leaned over and took him in hand? Probably freeze up, she figured. He hadn’t even advanced to French kissing yet, for God’s sake. She’s tried, now and then, starting off a kiss with her lips parted a bit, but he was resolutely not taking the hint, or even getting that she _was_ hinting. Obviously he was bright enough, but she couldn’t tell if his obtuseness about kissing was deliberate or genuine ignorance of the subject. He’d stopped freezing up every time she came near him, but he still almost never initiated anything. She still felt he was only allowing her to touch him, kiss him, be in his presence at all. 

Impulsively, Janine laid her head on his shoulder, having the same thought she’d had at the wedding. _If only you weren’t… whatever it is you are_. She was so fond of him, damn it. Sherlock didn’t react to this, either. His arm was draped loosely around her shoulders, his fingers limp, not touching her actively. She turned her face into his neck and kissed it, just the once. 

He went a bit still at that. Waiting, maybe? For what? To see if she was going to continue? She wished she could _make_ him react to her somehow, but pushing wouldn’t do any good. She knew better than that. After a moment, he said stiffly, “Are you getting tired? We don’t have to finish the movie.”

Janine’s pulse sped up. Was he offering to take her to bed? Or to let her go to sleep? Two extremely different things. She thought for a second, then said archly, “I’m not at all tired, but I’m definitely ready for bed.”

That seemed to give him pause. His decided lack of immediate and enthusiastic response made something in her chest deflate. But then he said, “I do have to work tonight. I did mention that…”

Janine sighed and uncurled herself from around him. “Yeah, you did,” she said. “I hadn’t forgotten. I can’t wait for this case to be over so that I can actually spend a night with you sometime.”

Sherlock pulled all of his limbs in close to himself like a child trying to shield himself from something, or someone. “The case is taking longer than I thought it would,” he said, staring straight ahead at the telly. He paused and added, no less stiffly, “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

She felt a bit badly. He was just so uncomfortable with all of this and she really did mean to go at his pace if that was what he needed. She just hadn’t expected it to be _this_ slow. “It’s okay,” she said, relenting. She got to her feet. “Come on. You can at least tuck me in before you go, then.”

Sherlock glanced at her. “All right,” he said warily. He didn’t seem to notice the hand she was holding out to him and got up without her help. He followed her into his bedroom, going to the big armchair in the corner where his foul crackhouse outfit was heaped. He picked it up and took it into the loo. 

“You don’t have to change in there, you know,” Janine said, unable to resist the urge. He looked back at her and she shrugged and grinned. “Just saying. I wouldn’t be at all uncomfortable.”

Sherlock blinked at her four or five times as though completely perplexed, then withdrew into the bathroom, closing the door quite firmly. Janine laughed to herself and shook her head. It was maddening, but there was something so endearing about him. She was _not_ falling in love with him. But she could, quite possibly, if she let herself. 

He came out, wearing his smelly, way-too-big rags, hair slicked back with some sort of product. If she hadn’t just seen it, she’d have thought it was horribly greasy. He hadn’t been shaving regularly and his stubble seemed more pronounced in this ensemble. “How do I look?” he asked, almost playfully. 

“Like a proper smackhead,” Janine said, wrinkling her nose and smiling despite herself. “And you smell like one, too.”

He smiled. “Good. Perfect.” He came a bit closer, then stopped as though unsure of himself. 

“Go on, then,” Janine conceded. “Give us a kiss. I’ll hold my breath.”

He came then, snickering – she’d actually made him laugh and it wasn’t even a funny story about John! – and kissed her very quickly. “See you in the morning, maybe.”

“I don’t have to leave until a bit later tomorrow,” she told him. “It’ll be nice. Maybe once you’re back, you can take a good long bath and get that smell off you and if you’re tired, you can crawl into bed with me.”

“Maybe,” Sherlock said, fiddling with the string hanging from the hood of his jumper. “We’ll see.”

That was the best she was going to get, wasn’t it? Janine let it go. “Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

***

In the morning, there were voices, angry ones. Maybe it was his brother. She’d never met him, but he’d called once or twice while she was over and he and Sherlock had snarked back and forth at each other on the phone for almost half an hour the second time, Sherlock finally hanging up with such force she almost thought he’d fling his phone across the room. She’d asked about it and he hadn’t wanted to talk about it. There were a lot of references to “he” and “she” but he never once said a proper name out loud and she wondered if it was because she was there. She hadn’t had a clue who they were talking about but figured it was none of her concern, anyway. Maybe it was to do with the case, and the important client. The majority of the voices died down and then it was only Sherlock talking to one other person. Was it John? Sherlock’s voice came closer, then he was in the bathroom, running a bath, his outline moving through the frosted glass. She decided to venture out and see, pulling on one of Sherlock’s shirts on a whim. She was rather hoping that it _was_ John; she couldn’t wait to see his reaction to her half-living there. She eased open the door, and sure enough, John was walking down the hallway toward her, as though he’d been about to follow Sherlock into the bathroom. He stopped in his tracks, seeing her. 

She feigned a bit of awkwardness. “Oh, John, hi,” she said, laughing a bit. She tugged down the shirt a little. “How are you?”

John’s mouth was open in patent disbelief and he took an actual step backward as though in direct rejection of what he was seeing. “Janine?!”

“Sorry,” she said apologetically. “Not dressed.” She moved past him to go into the kitchen. He let her pass like someone in a dream, catatonic with disbelief. “Has everyone gone? I heard shouting.”

John was still staring at her. “Yes, they’re gone.”

She glanced at the clock on the microwave. “God, look at the time. I’ll be late.” She picked up the coffee pot. “Sounded like an argument. Was it Mike?” She looked at him. 

“Mike?” John repeated blankly. 

“Mike, yeah. His brother, Mike.” Surely he knew Sherlock’s own brother? “They’re always fighting?”

“Mycroft,” John corrected, his stance somehow defensive. 

“Do people actually call him that?” Janine laughed. 

“Yeah.” He sounded stiff, tight. Interesting, that. 

“Huh.” She decided to have a bit of fun with it. After all, she’d been more or less living in his shadow for the past four weeks now. “Oh, could you be a love and put some coffee on?”

John blinked at her. “Sure, right, yeah,” he said, still sounding like he was in shock. 

“Thanks!” She poked playfully at his shoulder. “Oh, how’s Mary? How’s married life?”

“She’s fine. We’re both fine, yeah,” John said, a bit automatically. He turned away and went to a cupboard. Looking for the coffee, must be. 

“Oh, it’s over there now,” she said, pointing at its new cupboard. “Where’s Sherl?” she asked, as if she didn’t know. 

“Sherl,” John repeated, with a bizarrely fake grin. He cleared his throat. “He’s just having a bath. I’m sure he’ll be out in a minute.” He delivered this with what sounded like decided territorialism, as though he was a receptionist telling a client to take a seat and wait. 

Janine grinned back and thought maybe she’d demonstrate whose territory was whose these days. “Oh, like he ever is!”

With that same forced cheerfulness, he agreed. “Yeah!”

She went down the hallway, knocked quickly at the bathroom door, then opened it. “Morning!” she said. “Room for a little one?” So far he’d still never pulled her into the bath or invited her to join him, and given how he usually smelled when he first got home, she wouldn’t have wanted to share that particular bathwater with him anyway, but still. 

Sherlock actually gave a great, jovial laugh, though, every inch as fake as John’s forced cheer, and splashed some water at her. “Morning,” he said, sounding deeply satisfied about something, and she hoped it wasn’t just that he was terribly pleased that John knew about her and was obviously less than happy to have her there. 

Well: if operation make-John-jealous was getting him to be so much more flirtatious, she’d take it. She went and splashed him vigorously back and he laughed again, more openly and heartily than she’d heard him do in the entire month they’d been seeing each other. She did her make-up while he washed his hair, then left so that he could get out. John or no John, he still wasn’t going to let her see him nude just yet, she figured. He came into the bedroom clean-shaven, kissed her on the cheek and retrieved a suit from the closet and took it back into the bathroom. She heard him go out into the sitting room a few minutes later and smugly let him have his few minutes to explain it all to John. She couldn’t hear the words, just the tone – John’s stuttering and disbelief, Sherlock’s light-hearted, casual responses. She went back out and joined them a second later. “Okay, you two bad boys, behave yourselves,” she said playfully. Sherlock smiled happily at her and she deposited herself in his lap. “And you, Sherl, you’re going to have to tell me where you were last night.” As though he wasn’t always gone. 

“Working,” Sherlock said, also as though it was the first time it had happened. 

“‘Working’,” she repeated, teasing. “Of course. I’m the only one who really knows what you’re like, remember?” John stared openly at them from the edge of the coffee table where he was perched. 

Sherlock gave her a silly tap on the nose and smiled into her face. “Don’t you go letting on.” John was grinning that same, bizarre grin now, as though his face had got stuck that way, something like sick disbelief just beneath it. 

He had no right to be looking like that, about Sherlock. He was married. If the two of them had wanted to have something, they’d had their chance. Sherlock was with her now, at least sort of. And he’d promised to make it up to her about last night and she wasn’t about to let him forget that. “I might just, actually,” she said softly, just as a joke. She and Sherlock both looked over at John. “I haven’t told Mary about this,” she said, semi-apologetically. “I kind of wanted to surprise her.”

John made a sound something like air escaping from a tyre. “Yeah, you probably will!” That same disbelief, same almost-nausea. 

She ignored it. “We should have you two over for dinner really soon!”

“Yeah,” Sherlock chimed in, as if on cue. 

“My place, though, not the scuzz-dump,” Janine teased. Sherlock had never been in her flat. She punched him lightly on the shoulder and he laughed with her. 

“Great, yeah,” John echoed. “Dinner! Yeah.” 

Janine jumped to her feet. “Oh, I’d better dash. It was brilliant to see you!” she said to John. 

“You too,” he said, not sounding for a second as though he meant it. He turned to watch Sherlock cross the room with her, opening the door. 

“Have a lovely day. Call me later,” he said. It sounded like he was reading lines from a script for a really bad tv series. 

She fondled the edge of his jacket. “I might do,” she said silkily. “I might call you, unless I meet someone prettier.” She kissed him, three times in a row, letting each one make enough sound to be clearly audible. He didn’t normally let it go on all that long, but it felt like they were both in on this weird little game of putting on a show for John. She could just see him out of the corner of his eye, moving around in agitation. When she glanced over, he was staring pointedly out the window. “Solve me a crime, Sherlock Holmes,” she murmured. _And then come home for once and make this a real relationship_ , she didn’t add. He smiled and closed the door behind her, leaving her to wonder what kind of conversation he was about to have with John, meanwhile. 

***

Him showing up at CAM Global again was a surprise, especially since she’d told him not to meet her there, after the chat with Mr Magnussen. And how had he known about the security camera at the foot of the lift? (How had he even got that far inside?)

“Go on, let me in,” he stage-whispered, smiling broadly. 

“I can’t,” she said at once. “You know I can’t. Don’t be silly.” She’d told him that she’d been uneasy after the conversation with Mr Magnussen. Something like this could cost her the job if he decided he didn’t like it. 

Sherlock lowered his voice. “Don’t make me do it out here,” he said, almost sounding embarrassed. “Not… in front of everyone.” He glanced surreptitiously around. 

What was that, then? “Do what in front of everyone?” she asked. Was this something to do with his promise to make it up to her, about having worked all night yet again? 

Sherlock looked genuinely nervous, blowing out his breath, and then he was suddenly holding a red jewellery box, opened to face the camera. The box was blocking his mouth but his eyes were smiling. 

Janine didn’t stop to think, a fact for which she would later curse herself. Her hands over her mouth, she hit the clearance button, opening the lift for him. It was unbelievable – and if she had been thinking clearly, she’d have thought it even stranger than she did at the moment. After all, Sherlock still wouldn’t even kiss her with tongue, but maybe he was more the huge, sweeping gesture type, then? Who would have known! She hugged herself and went over to the windows to look outside, still marvelling in shocked delight. She knew it was crazy – it was far too soon to get engaged, but the romance of it, and that ring! Maybe he’d thought about it for long enough and had just decided she was the one. Who could have _guessed_ , though? 

The blow came from behind and slightly below, or so the hospital report said later on. She had no memory of the attack, just a whiff of something sweet in the air and then everything went black. The next thing she knew, there was pain and something sticky to her fingers – blood – and John was kneeling beside her. “Don’t move too quickly,” he said. “You’re going to be all right. Maybe a bit of concussion. What happened?”

Janine groaned and turned onto her back, trying to remember. “Where’s Sherlock?” 

“He, er, he had to go,” John said, looking strangely apologetic. “Did you see who hit you?”

Her thoughts began to clear. “No. I didn’t know there was anyone else in here.” She looked at John, puzzled. “Why are _you_ here?”

“Er,” John said, looking still more sheepish. He scratched at his nose. “I… er, I came with Sherlock, actually.”

That didn’t help. “Did he ask you to come for moral support or something?”

“Not exactly,” John said, not meeting her eyes. “Look, let’s get some ice on that. Is there a kitchen around here?”

“Um, yeah,” Janine said, but before he could answer, there was a distant sound from upstairs. John’s head snapped up. 

“That was a gunshot,” he said, lines appearing between his eyes, his face pointed toward the sound. 

“I didn’t – ” she tried, but he cut her off. 

“With a silencer. My God. _Sherlock_. You stay here,” he said, already on his feet and running toward the stairs. 

He never came back. She waited, and after a minute or two there were ambulance sirens wailing downstairs. Someone really must have been shot, then. She got to her feet, dizzy, and wondered if she should check with Mr Magnussen about leaving. She felt sick, slightly nauseous, and it wasn’t only from the blow to the head. It was becoming slightly clearer that perhaps Sherlock had not actually come to propose after all, not if he’d brought John. And John’s air of apology, his shiftiness. The way he’d bolted after Sherlock when he heard the muffled gunshot. The way they’d both forgotten about her. 

Janine decided to forget checking with Mr Magnussen. She was hurt in more ways than one and wanted to go home. To her own home, and if Sherlock called about dinner sometime, he could damn well beg on his hands and knees with that ring. She wondered if it was even real. It had looked real. Her eyes stung in the lift as she realised she should have guessed sooner. They’d only been seeing each other for four weeks, hadn’t even kissed properly yet. She’d never been permitted to touch him, never been touched by him. He’d never once shown any inclination that he wanted to, either. Ironic that with her head pounding and her vision blurring a bit at the edges that she could be thinking so clearly about this. Mary had told her that John and Sherlock were practically inseparable. Maybe he’d just been amusing himself while his best friend was away. Besides, she’d _known_ , about John, all the unspoken, underlying stuff there. The spectre that had always been there between them. And the way John had gone running after him… maybe it wasn’t as one-sided as she’d thought. The thought of the proposal suddenly made her remember the look she’d caught on his face as John had been speaking his vows. He’d never looked anything like that emotional in any way about her. All of his chuckles and light, closed-mouth kisses and allowing her near him, in his space, suddenly seemed vapid and empty next to that look she’d seen. Green carnations, she reminded herself. Suddenly that seemed more significant. Maybe he’d been trying to tell her then, how he felt about John. More like he didn’t even know that he was saying it, that he was just talking without realising that he was outing himself. Just like during the speeches, publicly declaring his love like that. Comparing it to Mary’s, as though all three of them had got married, not just John and Mary while Sherlock was off to the side on his own. Had he really not seen that? But who was she to talk – surely this must have been much more obvious than that. Sherlock Holmes was only interested in one person and she’d known from the night she met him who it was. 

She’d been a little fool. He was so attractive and he’d certainly gone through the motions, awkwardly maybe, but completely willingly. It had been him who’d called her every time, him who’d suggested it. She raised her hand to flag down a taxi further down the pavement from the ambulances, their lights flashing red and blue all over the front drive, and suddenly remembered how much he’d asked about her job, especially at the beginning. He’d taken to dropping in the occasional question about the building’s security system of late, and suddenly it all fell into place. It had been nothing more than a ruse all along. All of it. For some reason, he wanted to get into Mr Magnussen’s office. What the hell. She wasn’t the type to lose her temper but suddenly Janine was furious, absolutely furious. 

The fury made her aching head pound even more, and she realised that perhaps she actually shouldn’t stay on her own tonight, not with a concussion. Somehow she didn’t want to call Mary. Even though she was a nurse, she was always sort of dismissive of people’s symptoms, and besides, she didn’t need the reminder of John and his unwelcome presence that had been hovering over her life for the past month. She pulled out her phone and ran through her contacts. She stopped at one and smiled. Paul. From the wedding. Yes. She thought for a moment, then began to type with her thumbs. 

***

It bothered her that Sherlock never called, though. He could have at least said something, admitted it. He’d just dropped her like a rock. Maybe John had actually kissed him or something, driven by that crazy amount of jealousy he’d been exuding, overtly displaying, when he’d found out about her. If John _had_ kissed him, she’d probably never see Sherlock again. 

Three days went by. She wanted to vent. Preferably over wine or something sweeter. Margaritas, maybe. She texted Mary and asked if they could do drinks, and Mary agreed right away. 

They met in the lounge of a restaurant, a noisy place with colourful lights and flirtatious male servers and drinks on special. They both ordered fun, girly drinks that came with umbrellas and fruit, though Mary’s was non-alcoholic, and Janine downed about a third of her first one on the first sip. 

Mary raised those arched brows of hers. “Rough week?” she asked lightly. 

“You could say.” Janine studied her back. “You’re looking a bit worn out, too.”

Mary shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” She wasn’t convinced. Mary’s eyes were tired, showing her age more than usual. Normally Janine only noticed that Mary’s eyes were pretty, blue or green, depending on the light. Now she could only see the shadows under them, the fine lines in her pale skin. “Everything okay with John?”

“Fine,” Mary said, with a bit of an edge. “Why are you asking about him?”

Janine felt her forehead crease a little and stirred her drink with the straw. “Just seems like a normal question,” she said, a bit defensive. “We don’t have to talk about that.”

“What’s up with you?” Mary asked, deflecting the comment. “You all right?”

Janine sighed and stopped fiddling with her drink. Instead she picked up the cherry and pulled its stem off. “Not really,” she admitted, chewing the overly-sweet fruit. 

Mary leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “What’s going on?” She sounded concerned. 

“Well,” Janine said, wondering how to word it, exactly, “I was sort of seeing Sherlock.”

Mary choked on her drink and began to cough. “Sorry!” she apologised, eyes watering. She coughed again, accepting the serviette that Janine passed her. “God, I’m sorry. _What_ did you say?”

Janine felt still more defensive. “Yeah,” she said. “Sherlock. I was seeing him. For a few weeks, actually. We met at the wedding, obviously.”

“I thought you went home with _Paul_ ,” Mary said, staring at her. 

“I did. And then Sherlock called a couple of days later and asked if I wanted to have coffee.” She took another sip of her drink. “I’ve seen quite a bit of him, in fact. I’ve been staying over a lot.”

Mary pushed her drink away as though it had personally offended her. “I can’t believe that,” she said flatly. “That’s the most implausible thing I’ve ever heard.”

“What, you think I’m making it up?” Janine asked, not all the way angry yet but getting close. 

“No,” Mary said. “You wouldn’t. I just… wow. Sherlock. _Really_. Wow. I can’t _believe_ that. So, what: have you actually had sex with him?”

Put that way, the question was so very point-blank. Janine squirmed and stirred her drink again, sipped a bit more of it. “No,” she admitted. 

Mary stared at her. “How many times have you stayed over, exactly?”

“A lot,” Janine said, feeling cornered. “He’s been working nights.”

“I bet he has!” Mary said emphatically. 

She was confused. “Mary… I don’t… what are you…” she trailed off, looking at her friend uncertainly. 

Mary blinked for a long moment then opened her eyes and sighed. “Do you know where he’s been ‘working’, exactly?” 

“Yeah,” Janine said, still defensive. “He’s been doing some kind of undercover work in a druggie place. Almost every night.”

“And you’ve seen him in the morning?” Mary pressed. 

“Usually, yeah.”

“And he wasn’t high as a kite?” Mary’s words were hard. 

She felt trapped. There was no way to avoid answering that. “Once or… twice,” she admitted, voice small. She looked at the orange slice on the edge of the glass and thought about eating it. “He said it wasn’t a big problem.”

“Listen,” Mary said, putting her hand on Janine’s arm. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but… John accidentally found him there a few days ago. He’d gone to rescue the neighbour’s stupid kid and next thing he knew, Sherlock was there. John was furious, naturally, and took him to the hospital and made him get tested, and he was high. You say he’s been there almost every night?” She shook her head. “Don’t kid yourself. He might be decent at hiding it; John says he had quite a habit once upon a time. That’s not a situation you want to be in.”

“He said it was for work, for his cover,” Janine said, hearing even as she said it how feeble it sounded. 

Mary just gave her an unimpressed look. “Please,” she said. “And besides that, Sherlock could never get it up for a woman, sweetie. You have to know that. He’s completely obsessed with John, which is fine because it will never happen. I doubt Sherlock even knows what it means to love another person, or has a clear idea of what he would even want from John. Probably nothing even remotely physical; I don’t think he does that at all, ever. But John is really the only thing in the world that can catch his interest apart from his work at all. John’s very kind to him and just pretends he can’t tell. They’re best friends and that’s what best friends do, I suppose. But now that we’re back, I doubt he would have time for you, anyway, between his cases and John.”

“He proposed, you know,” Janine said, and saying it out loud made it sound even more unbelievable. 

Mary nearly choked again, on her laughter this time. Janine didn’t laugh with her, but it took her a moment to notice. “Oh, God, that’s good,” Mary said, touching at her mascara to make sure it wasn’t running. “Sherlock Holmes! Did he have an actual ring?”

“Yes.” Janine suddenly hated this conversation. “He did.”

Mary nodded, as though it all made sense to her. “And he brought it by your work,” she said. It wasn’t a question. At Janine’s confused expression, she sighed and patted her arm again. “He came by and you let him upstairs so that he could propose in person. Didn’t you.”

“I don’t – ” Janine stopped. She didn’t want to hear where this was going, all of a sudden. 

Mary’s fingers squeezed in sympathy. “He needed to get into the building,” she said. “His case: he was investigating Magnussen in relation to Lady Smallwood. That’s what he’s been working on, not some sort of undercover drug thing. He just needed to get inside. That explains it.” She was almost talking to herself now. 

Janine’s head was reeling. “So – that’s why he proposed,” she said, stunned. 

“That’s why he called you about coffee in the first place,” Mary said gently. “I’m sorry, Janine. That’s all it was: he must have found out where you worked and decided to try to use that as a way inside the building. I’m sorry. It must feel rotten, knowing that’s all it was.”

Janine couldn’t move or speak or think. Everything felt numb. The server came by and took her glass away. “Another round?” he asked, and Mary nodded and shooed him away. 

“Come on,” she said, lightly jiggling Janine’s arm. “You must have known it wasn’t real. Who proposes after three or four weeks of dating? When you haven’t even had sex yet? I mean, has there been _anything_ physical? Has he let you go down on him? Does he cuddle?”

She’d known the proposal wasn’t real, and she’d known about John, but _all_ of it… she’d thought that he definitely wanted something from her, even if he himself didn’t know exactly what it was yet. That in time, he’d figure it out if she was patient. The dawning truth felt _terrible_. She felt like such an idiot. “No,” she made herself say. “He only ever kissed me. Or let me kiss him, rather. I’m an idiot. I’m such an idiot.”

Mary leaned over and pulled Janine into a hug, patting her back. “I’m sorry,” she said again, and this time she sounded like she meant it. “It’s a horrible thing to do to anyone, using them like that. I’m really sorry.”

She refused to cry. Not here. Not in public. “I should have known,” she said dully. “God, Mary. I’m such an idiot.”

Mary took her by the shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes. “Do you know what I’ve always said? Don’t get angry. Get even.”

Janine was at sea. “I don’t… I don’t even know how I _could_. Obviously I have no idea what pushes his buttons.”

Mary lifted her eyebrows and smiled. “You work at a media corporation,” she reminded Janine. “Tabloids, hello! Sherlock is moderately well-known, though he’s not the superstar he thinks he is. You could go to town selling information on him!”

“I don’t have any,” Janine said, staring back at her. “Unless it’s the drugs thing.”

“No,” Mary said, pursing her lips. “Not that. That’s too negative. Let’s make it a big sexy exposé!”

“What, are you going to help me?” Janine asked. 

“Sure, why not? It’ll be fun,” Mary said brightly. “Also, if it’s any consolation, he’s been shot.”

Janine’s smile dropped off her face like a stone. “What?” she demanded. “ _Shot?_ ”

“I meant to mention it earlier,” Mary said. “Sorry. Yeah. He got shot. You know Sherlock: just couldn’t mind his own business. It was bound to happen. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s happened before.”

Some of the pieces started to come together in her mind’s eye. “At CAM Global,” she said. “He got shot when he was up in Mr Magnussen’s flat. Right after I got attacked.”

“Probably by the same person,” Mary said, nodding. She finished the second drink but refused a refill from the server who was passing. “So, once your big exposé is published – and you know he’ll be out of the way if you want to go and find things to use for the photos – then you can take him the printed copies. Use the money to spoil yourself a bit. You deserve it, and frankly, so does he.”

Janine scowled at her drink. It just didn’t seem like Sherlock. He’d seemed _nice_ , damn it, just confused and possibly asexual. Or gay. Gay for John, definitely. But the fact was that it was true. Mary had the right of it. Not wanting to believe it wouldn’t make it not have happened. He’d asked her out, let her kiss him, let her sleep in his bed (though never actually _with_ him), watch movies with him, and actually proposed – _proposed_! And none of it was real. Revenge was definitely warranted. “I’m down for that,” she said, and ordered a third round for the both of them, despite Mary’s protests. 

***

She brandished the newspapers in his face one at a time and damn, but it felt good. She was proud of those headlines. “I’m buying a cottage,” she announced, tossing down the last one and sitting down on the edge of the bed near his feet. “I made a lot of money out of you, mister.” It was true, too. Rent would never be an issue again. In fact, she was thinking of buying a place in Camden that she saw the other day. “Nothing hits the spot like revenge for profits,” she added as Sherlock idly picked up one of the papers. 

“You didn’t give these stories to Magnussen, did you?” he asked, sounding tired. And that was still all he cared about. Jesus. 

“God, no,” Janine told him. “One of his rivals. He was spitting!”

Sherlock made a sound that might have been a slight laugh. 

She shook her head. “Sherlock Holmes, you are a back-stabbing, heartless, manipulative bastard.”

Sherlock’s lips compressed slightly and he raised the bed into a sitting position. “And you, as it turns out, are a grasping, opportunistic, publicity-hungry tabloid whore.”

She mustered some false cheer. “So, we’re good, then!”

“Yeah, of course,” he said, smiling. It was a touch rueful but if he was relieved about having been let off the hook so lightly, he was hiding it well. “Where’s the cottage?”

“Sussex Downs,” she said. 

“Mm, nice,” he commented. 

“It’s gorgeous. There’s beehives, but I’m getting rid of those.”

Sherlock tried to adjust his position but made a pained sound. He was shirtless, a bandage covering the spot on his chest where he was shot. She supposed she could have asked who shot him and what all that was about, but she was still smarting enough that she wasn’t going to ask. She’d quit her job and didn’t particularly want to think about Mr Magnussen any more. She made a faux-sympathetic sound at Sherlock’s gasp of pain. “Hurts, does it? Probably want to restart your morphine. I might have fiddled with the taps.”

His voice still tight with pain, he asked, “How much more revenge are you going to need?” He dialled the level of morphine up quite high. 

“Just the occasional top-up,” she said, eyes on the dial. She hadn’t forgotten Mary’s warning. “Dream come true for you, this place,” she commented sardonically. “They actually attach the drugs _to_ you!”

“Not good for working,” Sherlock said, not rising to the bait. 

“You’re not going to be working for a while, Sherl.” He wouldn’t be using that excuse for a goodly bit, at any rate. She felt a touch of smug vindication. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, and Janine shook her head. “You lied to me. You lied and lied.”

“I exploited the fact of our connection,” Sherlock responded stiffly. 

She gave a disbelieving laugh. “When?!” He made a confused sound and she had to clarify. “Just _once_ would have been nice.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said. His eyes slid to the left, inventing. “I was waiting until we got married.”

“That was never going to happen!” she said, exasperated. He averted his eyes and she sighed and got up. “Got to go.” She went and kissed him on the forehead, then wiped away the lipstick. “I’m not supposed to keep you talking. And also I have an interview with The One Show and I haven’t made it up yet.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh. 

She went to the door. “Just one thing,” she said, and he looked over at her. “You shouldn’t have lied to me.” She was completely serious now. “I know what kind of man you are. But we could have been friends.” She smiled sadly, turned to the door, then looked back. “I’ll give your love to John and Mary.”

He didn’t say a word, just let her go. 

And maybe that was the worst part of all. 

***

Three months passed. Christmas and New Year were over and January had settled in. Life was decent, on the whole, despite the glitch that was the month of August. The new flat was gorgeous. She didn’t really need to work but got bored after a few weeks and got a job at the BBC. Paul was sticking around – in fact, things were pretty serious. He was good-looking and really nice. He was also, as Sherlock had said, a comics and sci-fi geek, which made him endearingly serious about some things and unexpectedly fun about others. And he was mad about her. It was nice, for a change. To feel wanted, really wanted again. He stayed over a lot now. At the beginning he’d been a bit stuffy about keeping sex in the bedroom, only doing it at night and all that, but she’d had enough of propriety after that month with Sherlock and his unresponsive, unwelcoming touches. Now she’d got Paul nicely loosened up and sometimes he’d get back from work before her and tackle her to the floor just inside the door when she arrived. It was really nice. Just thinking about it made her smile. 

In all that time, she’d only seen Mary once. She’d got all withdrawn and non-communicative once the whole media exposé had wrapped up. Maybe something had happened or something, but she’d finally answered one of Janine’s many texts and agreed to meet for coffee. Janine thought she’d looked even more tired than she had when they planned the exposé over several too many daiquiris (on her own part, at least). They’d met at a café across from the clinic. Mary was twenty minutes late before Janine spotted her coming through the clinic’s door but then she was sliding into the chair opposite a moment later. 

“Sorry I’m late,” she’d said, grey circles under her eyes. 

“No worries,” Janine had replied. She’d already ordered a coffee. She glanced back at the clinic through the windows. “Where’s John? Still working?”

“No,” Mary said shortly. “He hasn’t been coming to work lately.”

“What?” Janine frowned. “Why not? Is he sick or something?”

Mary shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. He hasn’t been at home much lately, either.”

Janine’s frown deepened. “What?” she said again. “What’s going _on?_ Is everything all right between you two?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Mary said, then turned to the server who had appeared. “I’ll have a coffee. Decaf.” She handed him her menu and turned back to Janine. “What’s new with you? You get the flat?”

“Yeah,” Janine said. “I’m moving next week.”

“Oh, nice,” Mary said, but she wasn’t really listening. “Where is it again?”

“Camden,” Janine said, feeling a bit flat. She was excited about it but it didn’t mean as much if Mary wouldn’t get excited with her. “You’d like it,” she tried. “You should come by and see it, once I’ve got it all unpacked and decorated properly.”

“Sure, yeah,” Mary said. The coffee arrived and she stirred some milk into it. “I like Camden, actually. That’s more my area than the suburbs, honestly. Or the country.” She made a face.

Janine didn’t understand the face. “What’s wrong with the country?” she asked, thinking of the little property in Sussex that she’d bought. 

“Oh, nothing,” Mary said. She looked tired again. “John said something once about wanting to retire to the country and I think I’d lose my mind out there. Might not be an issue at this rate anyway, but who knows.” She put the spoon down. 

Janine made a sympathetic expression. “Things are that bad, eh? Give it some time. I’m sure it’ll sort itself.”

“I said I didn’t want to talk about it,” Mary said sharply, then retracted it. “I know – I brought it up. I shouldn’t have. Go on about your flat.”

Rebuffed again, Janine fell back onto small talk. She mentioned Paul but Mary didn’t seem to care. Paul was an old college mate of John’s; perhaps it was sensitive territory. Right, then. That didn’t leave much. That hadn’t known each other all that long but the friendship had grown quickly. Mary was fun, easy to talk to, but had her bad moods, too. They’d met only a few months before the wedding at a conference hosted at CAM Global on social media and its effect on print media. Mary had been there and Janine had been working, and they’d got chatting at the reception afterward. It occurred to Janine that she didn’t actually know Mary all that well. She retreated a little and kept the conversation light, and neither of them had contacted each other after that. It hurt, being dropped like that. There was always something more bitter about a friendship break-up, she thought. People didn’t sympathise the way they did when a man had been a dick to you. And she didn’t understand, exactly. Maybe Mary was just going through a rough patch and preferred to keep her dirty laundry to herself, but after Janine had leaned on her after the fiasco with Sherlock, it felt a bit unfair that Mary didn’t trust her enough to share whatever she was going through. Fine, then. Life was too short. She’d just move on. She didn’t need this sort of thing. 

(But it still hurt.)

***

Sherlock, on the other hand, did call. Three weeks into January and out of the blue, she got a call from him. She was on her lunch break at a nice restaurant across the street from the BBC and scowled when she saw his name on the call display. She answered it. “This better be good,” she said, though she kept her tone pleasant. 

He hesitated over the line. “I wondered if you might be able to come over sometime,” he said, sounding very formal. “There’s a jumper of yours here that I’ve been meaning to return to you, and I also wondered if we could… talk.”

Janine felt her eyebrows go up. “Talk,” she repeated. 

As usual, Sherlock didn’t take the bait. “Yes.”

She sighed. “When?”

“Whenever you’re available. Today, perhaps?” Sherlock sounded anything but sure of himself, which was precisely how it ought to be. 

“Fine,” Janine said. “I’ll come by after work. Around five-thirty, probably.”

“I’ll be here.” Sherlock disconnected. 

He’d been waiting, true to his word. The outside door was unlocked, like always, and the door to the flat was open. Sherlock was in the kitchen with his laptop, which he closed when she came in. 

“Hello,” he said. He looked the same as ever. Great shirt, tailored perfectly for his slim frame, charcoal wool mix trousers that sat low on his hips and hugged his arse in ways that nearly hurt to look at. She’d forgotten how attractive he was. He slipped off the chair and went to the kettle, which was on the verge of boiling. “Tea?”

“Sure,” Janine said. He gestured at the opposite chair and she went and sat down. “I see you’ve got a new chair in the sitting room. Or is that the one that used to be in the bedroom?”

“It’s the one that was in the bedroom,” Sherlock assented, getting a couple of cups out of the cupboard. 

She noticed the coffee maker had been put back to its original spot. “Why’d you move it?” she asked, meaning the chair. 

“It’s John’s,” Sherlock said, and the same old constraint fell between them at his name. He cleared his throat and she thought it sounded a bit self-conscious. “He was staying here for awhile in the autumn. I moved it back out to the sitting room when he came back. Perhaps I’ll put it back in the bedroom.”

He poured water into the teapot and brought it over to the table, evading her eyes. Janine took her cup and rotated it slowly in her hands. “What did you want to talk about?” she asked slowly, wondering very much why she was here. 

Sherlock cleared his throat and went to the fridge. He came back with a bottle of milk, frowned at the date, then set it on the table. (Like she wouldn’t double-check for herself, anyway. She knew him better than that.) “First, thank you for coming,” he said, sitting down across from her. He folded his hands together precisely on the table and looked uncomfortable. “I… it’s occurred to me that I should have done this some time ago. I wanted to apologise. Properly.”

He stopped, not quite looking at her. Janine pursed her lips. “Go on,” she said. 

He glanced at her quickly then, and said, “I… what I did was unkind. I’ve had a bit of time to think about it, now that things have… I don’t know if you heard, but there was a bit of trouble just after Christmas. They thought that Moriarty was back, but it was all a hoax in the end, nothing on the terror alert scale at all, and John and I caught the people responsible in about two weeks, though that’s only because Scotland Yard was trying to ‘help’, imbeciles, the lot of them – ”

He was nervous, she realised. Rambling. “Apology,” she reminded him, steering him back to the topic at hand. She poured them both tea and checked the date on the milk. It actually was still good, for a change. 

Sherlock exhaled and ignored his own tea. “Right. Yes. Sorry. Well – what I mean to say is that now that things are quieter and I’m… on my own again, I’ve had some time to think, and I just wanted to say that I… regret what I did. It wasn’t… good.”

“No,” Janine said. “It wasn’t.” She looked at him and he met her eyes unwavering. “But I did get my revenge and all.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. He paused. “Did it help?”

It was a genuine question. “Yes and no,” she said. “I mean, if you’re going to be sad, you might as well be sad in comfort. But I liked you, Sherl. I really did. And I was so disappointed in you for doing that to me. Seems to be in the air these days, though.”

The little creases at the bridge of his nose deepened, uncomprehending. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, just…” she waved her hand at him. “First you, then Mary.”

“What about Mary?” Sherlock asked, sounding rather keenly interested. 

“She’s just sort of stopped being my friend,” Janine said, feeling the sting all over again. “Just stopped calling, texting, all that. I don’t know. I thought she was having a rough time in the autumn but she’s just fallen off the planet, seems like. Or I don’t know.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock said. He looked as though he was debating with himself, but evidently decided not to share whatever he was thinking. 

Janine studied him. “Can I ask you something?”

Sherlock winced a little, as though he’d already guessed what her question was. “Okay,” he said warily.

She leaned forward, hands wrapped around her teacup. “John,” she said. “I have to ask.”

Sherlock flinched as though she’d struck him and looked away, but he said, “I suppose you have every right to ask.”

Janine kept her voice gentle. “You’re in love with him. Aren’t you.” It wasn’t really a question so much as a confirmation. 

Sherlock chewed at the inside of his lip. “Yes.” A short admission, but very clear. 

She opened her mouth to ask for detail, but he gave it before she could. 

“Very much so.” He lifted his gaze from the floor and looked at her steadily, his eyes very blue. “You’re not surprised.”

“Not really, no,” Janine said. “I mean, honestly, I sort of thought so at the wedding already. There was all that about not wanting to hook up and suggesting other people, but there was this one moment when John was saying his vows, and – ”

“I remember,” Sherlock said. A small silence fell between them. 

“Yeah, well, I saw your face,” Janine said. “And you left so early. And your speech. And all that about the green carnations.”

“All very clear evidence,” Sherlock agreed. He finally picked up his tea and took a sip, focus turning inward. “I always knew that he didn’t… that it would never happen. It was still difficult to accept. Very difficult. The chair in the sitting room is his. I moved it into the bedroom after the wedding, and moved it back out this autumn when he was here again. He moved the coffee maker back, by the way.”

Janine had to smile at that. “His prerogative, I guess,” she said. “Listen, what happened there? You got shot, and then John and Mary started having all this trouble, it sounds like – she said, and then he was living here… what happened? Who shot you?”

Sherlock took another deliberately slow sip of tea, gauging her over the rim of the cup. He set it down and said, “You may not believe me. Also it may… I don’t want to cause you additional pain, and knowing the answer to those questions might do that.”

She frowned. “I don’t get it. Just tell me.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock’s lips thinned a bit. “The person who shot me is the same person who gave you a concussion that night, at Magnussen’s office.”

She stared at him. “And who was – ”

“Mary.” Sherlock watched her reaction, which _was_ shocked. When she didn’t respond right away, he went on. “Mary took out you and a security guard, then shot me when I interrupted her threatening Magnussen. I survived, just barely. Obviously. I’m sorry that John abandoned you that night. He was in the ambulance with me.”

That actually did make her feel better to know. “But… _why_ would Mary do that?” She didn’t understand. “Mary _shot_ you? And she was threatening Mr Magnussen?”

“He was blackmailing her about her past,” Sherlock said. “There was a lot of material and she was attempting to extract it from him. Unfortunately I got in her way.”

This time Janine put the pieces together on her own. “So she’d been targeting him for awhile, then,” she said. That was why Mary had been at the conference. She was scoping out the building, maybe hoping to get a glimpse of Mr Magnussen, who hadn’t been in the country at the time. It was why she’d had to be there, herself. “And that’s why we were friends,” she said. She looked at Sherlock for confirmation and he nodded, silent apology all over his face. “So that wasn’t real, either.”

“I’m afraid not,” Sherlock said quietly. “I am very sorry to have had to tell you that.”

“But – ” She stopped. “Okay. I see. It was all nothing but that. That’s the entire reason that I even know you and Mary, because you both needed to get to Mr Magnussen through me. I understand that. Thank you for apologising. At least _you_ have. But I don’t understand why Mary’s dropped me, though. Doesn’t she still need to get at his information?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “You know he’s dead, of course. It’s been in the media. Mystery shooter and all that.” He picked up his spoon and fiddled with it a bit. “ _I_ shot him. He was blackmailing Mary and by extension making John’s life miserable. And if I hadn’t done it, John might have, and I couldn’t have let that happen. So I did it.”

Janine’s mouth was open in shock. “But – then why aren’t you in prison or something?”

Sherlock swirled his tea around. “I was going to be sent on a terminal mission in Serbia, but I was recalled at the last minute. Which is a relief, to say the least. Because of the Moriarty scare. And after that, my brother negotiated something, somehow, and got me off the hook.”

“So Mike _is_ good for something,” she said. 

Sherlock smiled a little at that. “He has his uses,” he conceded. The smile faded quickly. He looked down at the table. “John forgave Mary at Christmas and moved back in with her. So I’ve been on my own and I’ve had some time to think. A lot has been happening lately, but I nonetheless know that I put this off too long. I really do apologise.”

“It’s okay,” Janine said. “You can stop apologising. I get it. And I should have known all along, anyway. I mean, I knew, about you and John.”

“There is no ‘me and John’,” Sherlock corrected her. He pushed his tea away, suddenly losing interest in it. It was probably cold by now, anyway. “He’s with Mary again. They’re expecting. I can’t hope to compete with that.” He lifted his eyes to hers and tried a tight smile but it failed entirely. He looked bleak. 

Janine thought of something. “As long as we’re doing revenge,” she said slowly, “it occurs to me that there’s something that I know that you might like to know. That John might like to know.”

Sherlock glanced at her. “What’s that?”

“It’s Mary,” Janine told him. “She’s cheated on John. More than once.”

Sherlock went very still. Then he said, and it wasn’t a question, “With David Blake.”

“Yeah,” Janine said. “Several times. Here, once. She told me.”

He could have been carved from stone, he was so still. Finally he blinked and sat back. “I could never tell him. The person who tells always gets some of the blame, somehow.”

“True,” Janine said. “But I could. And I would.”

Sherlock thought about this for a long time, unmoving. Then, finally, he nodded. “It’s… unkind,” he said, as though he was struggling with it. “But John should know. He _deserves_ to know. It’s not right. He should know what he’s choosing. There’s already so much that he doesn’t – but _this_ – he needs to know this. He couldn’t tolerate this. But I can’t be the one to tell him.” He met her gaze again. “Would you really tell him?”

“I really would,” Janine said. “Consider it an act of vengeance. I mean – okay, you pretended to date me for a little bit, a few weeks, but you never – I mean, it was never real, was it? We never… you know. You know exactly what we never did. You didn’t actually have a relationship with me, in that sense. But Mary – I really thought we were friends. I’ve confided in her, and she dropped me like a rock the minute she was finished with me. As soon as Mr Magnussen was dead she didn’t need me any more. _That_ hurts. With you, I always sort of knew it wasn’t real – though you really shouldn’t have proposed, Sherl, that hurt – but Mary, she hasn’t even apologised or let on that it was just for that, and I don’t think she ever will.”

“If it helps, she never apologised for shooting me, either,” Sherlock offered dryly. 

Janine smacked the table with the palm of her hand. “Damn it, she should have!” she exclaimed. “You don’t just _shoot_ people!” She glanced at him. “I guess Mr Magnussen is a different case. I mean, he was horrible. He did horrible things to people. But _you_ – you were the best man at their wedding!”

Sherlock winced again. “I know.”

“Sorry,” she said, realising that the entire wedding was still a sore subject for him. “But yeah – I’ll definitely tell him for you. He won’t ever know that you even knew.”

Sherlock gave her a look that was palpably relieved. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it. He picked up his cup and emptied the cold tea into the sink, then sat down and poured himself a new one. “How have you been?” he asked, changing the subject. “Are you all right?”

Janine smiled at him. This was probably the first real conversation they’d ever had, and it wasn’t half bad. As friends, maybe. “I’m good,” she said. “I bought a new flat in Camden and it’s nice. And I’m dating Paul again.”

Sherlock smiled and stirred rather a lot of sugar into his tea. “Good. I told you he was a good fit for you.”

“He is,” Janine admitted. “You were right. We get along great, and he _really_ likes me. After the thing with you, it’s been really nice to be with someone who actually wants me, wants to be with me. Sorry, I’m not trying to be – I just – he’s definitely into women, for starters, and he still acts like he can’t believe I’m actually willing to be with him.”

“That’s fantastic,” Sherlock said, actually smiling nicely at her. She’d never seen that particular smile before. It was completely sincere and she got that it was pretty rare that anyone ever saw Sherlock that way. “I’m glad,” he said. “So it’s fairly serious, then?”

“It is,” Janine said. “Sometimes I’m almost afraid of how serious – but not really. It’s good. I’m happy. Except for the Mary thing, I guess.” She fiddled with the spoon she’d used to stir her tea. “Actually, he might be getting transferred to Boston,” she said. 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. He’s asked if I might go with him, if he does,” she said. “And I might. I just might. I’d keep the flat here, rent it out, maybe, but I guess I’d probably sell the cottage. Speaking of which, Mary mentioned something about John wanting to retire to the country someday. You figure he’d like Sussex?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. When she looked at him, she saw that his hands were actually trembling around his cup. He couldn’t seem to speak but nodded instead. He cleared his throat again, blinked five or six times, then managed to get the words out. “He – I – he told me that once, too,” he said. “I thought of him when you first mentioned buying the cottage. He would never retire with me, of course. I mean, he and Mary – but maybe if I had a place like that, he would visit, sometimes. Maybe.”

Janine looked at him and for the first time, _really_ saw. Saw the depth of it. All of the fear, all of the lost, unrequited, brokenness in there. Saw why he could never have born to kiss any person on the earth with all of his mouth, all of himself, not while John Watson lived and breathed. She saw the hopelessness, too. The quiet despair of a man who had long since decided to never, ever reveal his love if he could possibly help it, because he knew it would be unwelcome. And knowing somehow took the rest of the sting out of the pretended relationship. He _loved_ John, loved him like she’d never loved anyone, but she could certainly recognise it. And John was married to someone who cheated on him and shot Sherlock. (What on earth was John thinking, taking her back?) And it didn’t seem like John was gay, but the way he’d bolted after Sherlock the night he was shot, at the very thought that Sherlock might have been in danger. He’d thought of literally nothing else but Sherlock, everything else fleeing from his mind as that one priority stood out above all others. And then there was the blatant, obvious, painful jealousy he’d displayed over finding out about her. The way he’d cried when Sherlock said he loved him, at the wedding. Suddenly it seemed very plausible, the possibility of the two of them. Maybe finding out about Mary’s affair would be the last straw that would break the marriage and drive John back to Sherlock, but for keeps this time. Maybe he’d pull his head out of his own arse and see what he had in Sherlock. And maybe she could be the one to help him do it. 

She reached over and touched his wrist. “I would sell it to you, if you want,” she said. “At exactly what I bought it for. Friend price. Then you’d have it to offer John, when he comes back.”

Sherlock’s lip twisted. He stared into his tea. “He won’t come back,” he said, with just enough conviction to make it sound bitter. 

Janine smiled at him. “Leave it to me.”

***

“Thanks for meeting me,” she said to John when he sat down. 

“Sure,” he said, waving it off. Like Mary, he had gargantuan bags under his eyes and rubbed tiredly at them while Janine ordered a glass of chardonnay, then ordered a glass of the house red for himself. “Haven’t seen you in ages,” John said, sliding the wine list over to the side. “How have you been?”

Janine smiled. “Decent,” she said. “Really good, actually. Thanks for asking.” She paused slightly. “How are you?” He looked like shit, she thought. 

John cast around for something to look at, something to say. “Oh…” he floundered. “Okay. Fine, I guess. Yeah.”

“How’s Mary?” She eyed him carefully. 

John tried to smile and it was strained. He opened his mouth to speak. “It’s…” The lie wouldn’t come and he faltered. “It’s been better,” he muttered instead. Then, “It’ll get better. Things aren’t great at the moment. She said you knew about all that.”

That surprised her. “Interesting,” Janine said evenly. “Given that I haven’t seen Mary since November.”

That seemed to surprise _him_. “Really,” John said, the creases in his forehead deepening. “I wonder why.”

“Oh, I imagine it might be because the only reason we ever got to be friends was because she needed access to Mr Magnussen,” Janine said coolly, and watched him flinch. “Same as Sherlock, I know, but at least he’s apologised. Nicely, too.”

“Has he?” John said. He smiled a little, though it didn’t quite reach his weary eyes. “That’s good.”

“Yeah,” Janine said. “He called the other day and we had a good, long talk. He called because he wanted to apologise. I appreciated it. He explained why and all that, said he knew it still didn’t make it right. But we’re good. We’re friends, I think. But yeah, I asked him about all last autumn, what the hell happened to him. I never knew what happened or who had shot him.”

Their wine arrived and John used it as a timely distraction. The server withdrew and he took a sip quickly, eyes averted. When he set the glass down, he asked, “But now… did he tell you about… all that?”

“Yeah, he did,” Janine said. She sipped the chardonnay. It was cool and crisp and fruity: perfect. “It was good that we talked. I found out a lot of things, like why Mary wasn’t returning my calls any more. I figured out that she didn’t have any use for me any more. It’s funny, you know. She warned me about Sherlock. Told me what a big drug habit he had, that he wouldn’t be good for me. Funny, her saying that. As though she actually cared. Funny that it would be Sherlock who turned out to be the more caring person of the two of them, regardless of what he all did.”

John scowled. “He had you staying over all the time,” he said, refuting her. “He _proposed_ to you.”

“Yeah, and that’s what he apologised for the most,” Janine said. “I’m not saying what he did was all right. But he apologised and he meant it. Mary just ditched me though, without a word. I’ve never been anything but a good friend to her but she didn’t want a friend. Just info on my boss.”

“She’s… been under a lot of stress lately,” John said, though even he didn’t sound even slightly convinced by it. “And she’s pregnant.”

“She sought me out and befriended me a few months before the wedding,” Janine countered. “She didn’t have to do that. And you don’t have to defend her, John.” John stared into his wine and didn’t respond, so she went on. “Anyway, Sherlock also said why he did what he did. Shot Mr Magnussen so that he’d leave you alone. So that you wouldn’t shoot him yourself. He was willing to take all the blame for that, anything it would take so that you could be happy. You know that, right?”

John’s mouth worked a little. He nodded once, stiffly, but didn’t say anything. 

“I assume you know why?” Janine said, lifting her eyebrows. John took a sip of wine looking like he was only going through the actions, barely tasting it, eyes focused on the middle distance. “You must know. He loves you, John.”

“Yeah, I know,” John said quietly, just above a whisper. He cleared his throat. “He’s my best friend. I love him, too. Of course.”

“That’s not how I mean.” She looked at his eyes but he wouldn’t look at her. “He’s in love with you. Completely and totally in love with you.”

John swallowed. “He… tell you that, did he?” he asked, looking at the table. She didn’t miss the tension in his hands, his fingers twisting together, the nail beds whitening. 

“Yeah,” Janine said. “And while it’s pretty noble that you’ve forgiven Mary and all that, though I can’t really see why, I think you should know that she’s cheated on you. More than once. She told me herself. I don’t think you owe her any loyalty. And I think you should maybe do a paternity test for the baby.”

This took a moment to sink in and then John’s face turned to her, dark-grey eyes wide, mouth set in a grim straight line. His nostrils flared as he inhaled, his jaw clenching, his eyes full of fury. The lines going from around his nose to the corners of his mouth became tight. “She – ” he started, and his voice was much too loud. He stopped and started again at a much lower volume, though his tone was rigid with tension. “She did. She really did. After – _everything_ that I – I can’t even – ” His hand balled into a fist around the stem of his wineglass, so tight she thought he might snap it. “Bloody, fucking, buggering _hell_.” He shook his head, eyes closing. “I – this is – no.” He opened his eyes and looked at her. “Thank you for telling me,” he said, the words very brusque, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “That helps. I needed to know that.”

“I figured,” Janine said. His eyes met hers and she saw something in the depths there so bleak and so hopeless that it almost took her breath away. He was _so_ unhappy, much more so than she’d realised. She decided to put the icing on the cake. “Also, just in case you want to know… it’s a bit humiliating to admit, but nothing ever happened between Sherlock and I, you know. We never slept together. I stayed over in his room but he was never there. He would barely even kiss me. I think he was trying to make you jealous, honestly. That day when you came over.”

John exhaled heavily through his nose. “It worked,” he said, giving a short laugh. He shook his head again. “God, it worked.” His eyes flicked up to hers. “You really never – ?”

“Not once,” she reassured him, rueful. “There was nothing. He barely touched me during those four weeks. And don’t think I didn’t try. You’re really the only person who exists for him, you know.”

John swallowed, then swallowed again. Janine was startled to catch a glimmer of moisture in his eyes. Just like at the wedding. “If I had – there are so many things that I should have done differently. If I’d – ” He stopped and shook his head. Then he abruptly stood, pulled out his wallet and took out two twenty-pound notes and dropped them on the table. “Thank you,” he said, and if it was terse she knew it was only because of the emotion roughening his voice. “I have to go.”

“Right, yeah,” Janine said, and he strode out of the restaurant without another word. She wondered if he would go straight to Baker Street, but he probably needed a bit of time to mull it all over. Sherlock had said once that he was a slow thinker but fairly intelligent compared to most people. She’d assumed that meant that John was practically a genius. This would definitely take him a bit of time, though. She smiled to herself and finished her wine, though she felt a bit sad at the same time. Why hadn’t they ever just got together right from the beginning and saved each other and everyone around them a lot of pain? People were such idiots sometimes.

She pulled out her phone and texted Paul spontaneously, then got up and pulled her coat on. She’d done what she could. It was time to go. 

***

Five days later her bank called to say that the wire transfer had gone through. Janine went and got the deed to the cottage out of her desk drawer and put it into an envelope, then went down and got a taxi to Baker Street. 

Just as it was the last time she was there, the outside door was unlocked. She went inside and up the stairs, then stopped. 

Through the open door to the flat, Sherlock and John were standing in the middle of the sitting room, arms wrapped so tightly around each other that there was no visible space between them at all. They were kissing so deeply and so passionately that it sent a thrill of second-hand emotion shivering down her spine. They were barely moving; just their hands stroking slowing up and down each other’s backs, their lips devouring one another’s, fiercely, hungrily, and if she’d ever thought Sherlock incapable of passion like this, all of her ideas had just been seriously rewritten. She shrank back instinctively, not wanting to interrupt or to be seen. Perhaps she should go, but she thought maybe they’d stop and there would be a good moment to just pop in and give Sherlock the deed. She sort of wanted to see his face when he saw it, held it in his hand. What he believed could be the key to his and John’s long-term future, what could physically represent the possibility of them staying together for the long haul. 

They didn’t seem to be slowing, though. Janine sat down quietly at the top of the stairs to wait. 

“I was such an idiot,” John breathed, almost moaning. “God, Sherlock. Why did it take me so long?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.” Sherlock sounded less in control of himself than she’d ever heard him sound, voice not quite steady. There came the sounds of another kiss and John did moan now. 

“I love you,” he told Sherlock, voice thick with emotion. 

“I love _you_ ,” Sherlock countered. “ _John_ … I…”

“Shut up,” John said fiercely. “Just shut up. I’ll never leave you again. I promise. I’m sorry. So fucking sorry.”

Sherlock’s intake of breath was sharp and Janine could hear his hands moving over John’s clothing, his body. They were kissing frantically, from the sounds of it, both of them starting to make a bit of sound, and after a moment John tried to speak again, his words muffled by his mouth’s proximity to Sherlock’s. 

“Let me just close the door – Mrs Hudson – ” 

“If you let go of me for one second, I’ll die,” Sherlock said emphatically, and Janine closed her eyes and could imagine his face as he said it, that same looked of pained, core-deep emotion that she’d seen on his face during the wedding and during their last conversation. Only he could get away with saying something so intensely over-dramatic and yet make it sound wrecked with emotion rather than totally ridiculous. 

John’s response was vocal but non-verbal and Janine leaned over just a bit, curious. They were swaying together, bodies twining, pelvises pushed together, hands roving wildly now. Sherlock’s shirt had come untucked and John’s hands were gripping his arse with all ten fingers and Sherlock seemed to be trying to climb John’s body with his legs. God, it was hot. She shouldn’t be spying on it, she really shouldn’t. But it was really something to see Sherlock like this, completely unravelled and so in love he couldn’t have hid it if he tried. It was pouring out of him like sunlight and John was glowing with it, reflecting it back like Sherlock’s own, private moon. It was beautiful. She felt a slight lump in her throat. 

“Please,” Sherlock said, his voice low, pleading. “ _Please_ , John…”

“What do you want?” John asked, barely above a whisper. “Anything – we can do anything you want – ”

“Just – touch me, please.” He was all but begging, so emotional he was not far from tears, dignity abandoned, voice rough and trembling. 

“Anything,” John vowed, his own voice reverent and low. They were kissing again, Sherlock’s hands down the backs of John’s jeans, John’s fighting for space between them to get Sherlock’s trousers open, and then he must have succeeded because Sherlock moaned loudly, head falling back, lips parted, breathing John’s name like a prayer. John’s mouth was on his throat and then Sherlock’s knees were buckling and he was pulling John down to the floor with him. They were struggling to both undress and writhe together at the same time and finally succeeded in getting their lower halves nude. Sherlock’s shirt was open, pooling on the carpet beneath him and John hauled the t-shirt he was wearing off over his head. 

“Please,” Sherlock requested again, all of that rawness still there. 

“Yes.” John’s mouth was hovering over Sherlock’s throat and chest and moving down his torso, kissing as he went. When he moved even lower, Janine saw the jut of Sherlock’s erection and quickly looked away. It wasn’t fair, seeing that. And yet it was, somehow. It didn’t feel all that unjustified.. It was sort of satisfying to know that he _could_ do that, that he wasn’t completely insensate to this part of life. Although from the sounds he was making, he’d quite possibly never had a mouth on his cock in all his life. 

“John – I need – ” He was wild, arms splayed, long fingers scrabbling at the carpet, succumbing helplessly to his desire. 

There was a wet sound as John lifted his mouth, judging from the sounds, at least. “Yeah?” he asked. “Tell me, Sherlock.” It was urgent. “Anything – _anything_ you want, just tell me – ”

Sherlock swallowed audibly. “I need – you,” he said, which wasn’t terribly specific. “More – I want to be closer, I want – ”

She peeked in again and saw John crawl back up over him, rubbing themselves together, which stalled Sherlock’s halting words even further as they moved together, both breathing heavily as they kissed, Sherlock’s large, beautiful hands caressing John’s arse as though it was the most precious thing he had ever touched. “What do you want?” she heard John ask, panting against Sherlock’s neck. 

“You – in me – ” Sherlock gasped. “ _Please_.”

“Yes.” John agreed immediately, kissing him again. “Oh God, Sherlock. Yes. _Yes_.”

“Do you – is there – ”

“Yes.” John spared him having to ask, reaching for his jeans and finding something in the pockets. “It could be a bit – the first time, it can be – ”

“I don’t care. Please. Please, John.”

John moaned, shifting his weight so that his back was more to the door. Janine sat back again, knowing that she shouldn’t watch this. She really should go, but she didn’t want to make any sound and interrupt them, put them off. It was so important. They needed this. And she wanted them to have it. She’d just wait until it was over and she’d slip away. But not just yet; it was so tenuous even yet. 

Sherlock was gasping and John was murmuring something too low to hear, between kisses. Sherlock’s sounds changed from pain to pleasure and then there was a note of warning in John’s tone. A moment later they moaned in tandem. 

“All right?” John asked, his voice full of rough tenderness and lust so thick he could barely speak through it. 

“Yes – yes,” Sherlock repeated. “God. John.”

“I know,” John said. Then again, just above a whisper. “I know.”

“Now,” Sherlock requested a moment later. “Please.”

“Yes,” John said again, and Janine could hear their bodies begin to move together, slowly at first, then gradually faster. Their breathing got faster and faster, their sounds more and more urgent. 

“Please,” Sherlock said again, his voice breathless. “John – _please_ , please – p – ” He stopped, breath choked off as John made a sound so animalistic that it made Janine’s own pulse spike and then Sherlock was exhaling in ragged bursts, moaning hoarsely. 

“Oh God, yes,” John breathed. “God, that’s gorgeous. Look at you.” Sherlock gave another sharp sound and this time Janine heard it, the spatter of fluid between them, and John was moaning, his body pounding against Sherlock’s and then he was cursing, his movements stilling. 

“I can – feel it,” Sherlock panted. “Oh God, John. I can _feel_ you…”

John’s mouth cut off his words as their bodies slowed, still moving together but spent and sated now. They kissed for a long time, punctured every so often with something murmured so quietly that Janine couldn’t hear the words. She didn’t need to. She blinked and realised that her eyes were wet with tears. She took the deed from her purse and turned the envelope over. She dug for a pen and wrote: 

_Congratulations. I’m so happy for you, Sherl. xx – J_

She left it at the top of the stairs and very quietly crept down and let herself out. 

***

She didn’t hear anything from Sherlock until six weeks later. She got home from work one day and checked her mail before going upstairs, where Paul was apparently waiting with a lasagne that was baking. There was a heating bill and a postcard. She studied the picture. It was a photograph of gently rolling green hills leading down to the sea. She smiled. Sussex Downs. She turned it over. Both Sherlock and John had signed it, but the two words scrawled above it were written in Sherlock’s hand. 

_Thank you._

*

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for SilentAuror's "The Green Carnations"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3159179) by [livloveel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livloveel/pseuds/livloveel)
  * [[Cover Art] for "The Green Carnations" by SilentAuror](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4392689) by [Hamstermoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/pseuds/Hamstermoon)




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